


You Talk Too Much

by apple_solutely



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Body Positivity, Domestic Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Posessive Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier deserves some love, Richie Tozier is famous, Soft Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, they're also parents of two because why not, today I offer you domestic and happily married reddie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:00:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26514844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_solutely/pseuds/apple_solutely
Summary: Richie goes for a swim at the beach and Eddie is not happy about the two men openly lusting after his husband.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 19
Kudos: 166





	You Talk Too Much

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of a backstory about the plot: Veronica Mars is one of my favorite shows and one day I randomly remembered this tiny scene from the 1st episode of season 4. Naturally, my brain did it's thing and annoyed me until I wrote this fic that nobody asked for like a possessed person because I am the epitome of self-indulgence. 
> 
> You can watch the clip from the show [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mEzgXWP0qUM) if you're interested but I will also link it at the end notes if you'd rather read this first.
> 
> Title taken from the song Talk too Much by COIN, which is a Richie/Eddie anthem in my opinion.
> 
> Enjoy <3

Eddie trudges through sand, feet dragging and shoes collecting components of dirt and minuscule rocks, while a litter of crushed cigarettes are spread like a grave of dead bodies on the battlefield—which could be blamed on rebellious teenagers since there was a strict no-smoking policy on the beach.

He regrets not having slipped into flip-flops instead of now ruining his best Timberland leather shoes they bought a few months prior. There isn’t any use crying about it really; Richie will have bought and ordered a new pair by the next day, neatly packaged and waiting on their doormat that reads _Get out of town if you’re a clown_ because Richie finds himself hilarious and Eddie has to accept behind unamused expressions that yes, Richie is pretty fucking adorable. But perhaps the more embarrassing notion for Eddie is how Richie’s imbecile brain conjures jokes worthy of provoking him to bang his head into a brick wall. And how he stupidly rambles on in attempts of riling Eddie up, mouth hooked up at the corner, cocky and clearly daring him to verbally or physically attack him. A conniving plan he seems to fall for each time. Hook. Line. And sinker.

Because he knows Richie finds the same thrill as a normal person does while on a theme park ride, to the thrill he seeks in Eddie when irritation clouds his entire moral high ground and kissing him senseless is the only option viable in the moment. He always knows exactly what he’s up to; knows he thrives on Eddie’s attention the same as Eddie longs for Richie’s. He knows what Richie’s playing at when he writes cute notes to stick on the cover of his food container, written messages transcribed terribly and the only reason Eddie’s able to read them is because of the large segment of his brain that’s entirely reserved and stored with information about his husband. Or when he’s at work and Richie sends an innocent picture of himself in atrocious outfits, creating strange poses in front of the mirror as if he’s a teenager, and Eddie is miserably forced to contain the utter urge to break the clip of his pen off.

In other cases, it involves reading Richie’s tweets, all dedicated to updating his loyal fans about Eddie, borderline Big Brother, and _The Truman Show_ combined. Eddie doesn’t truly mind the stalker-ish behavior. He understands the depth of Richie’s affections and the need for an outlet all too well.

Richie’s latest tweet: _My husband argued with me about the ending of_ Pan’s Labyrinth _for three days. God, I love him_.

Small notions such as this bring a smile to his face. Albeit a quivery one, but a smile nonetheless as he proceeds to text Richie two red heart emojis, to which he traditionally receives three text messages consisting of: five hearts, a trademark bear hug gif, and a voice message dictating a sweet _I love you_. This is usually when Eddie has to commence a brief breathing exercise in the vicinity of his office room until his blood pressure has reached a normal level and he can get to class, teach Statistical Research in Psychology to his students without bumbling like a lovestruck maiden.

He does not usually bumble like a lovestruck maiden. What he does instead is give his students hell. Richie laughed all afternoon when Patty—respectively a university counselor—offhandedly mentioned her office becomes a revolving door of frustrated students the day Eddie can’t get a handle on his emotions. A disgruntled and blushing Eddie had believed their workplace was a safe environment, but Patty is rather mischievous and capable of pulling the rug from under his feet in the same manner and wavelength of which the rest of the Losers attain.

Eddie squints into the distance where he can spot Richie beating against the tides, in the middle of his own struggle. Built like a tower, he is easy to find, a large speck, all skin with blue trunks matching the ocean and his striking, soulful eyes. Richie makes quite a spectacle, walking out of the water clumsily in slow motion—but the cliché _Baywatch_ -esque of the scene worthy of Eddie’s spank bank material overrides the embarrassment he so rarely feels in correlation to his husband.

It should be illegal. To show miles of open-road skin, shirtless with quadriceps and hamstrings on spotlight—in Eddie’s opinion, the sexiest, most intriguing portions of the human body. Wet. Hair sticking with shiny droplets, and stomach hanging over the edge of his trunks, settling low. They fit snug at the moment—from the water, and Eddie clamps down his teeth, unblinking. His lungs seize due to his susceptibility he can thank evil space clowns for. That motherfucker turned his insides into barbecue kebab. However, his failing organs aren’t to be blamed wholly on Pennywise because Eddie’s breath has been catching ever since they reunited for Derry 2.0, at the Jade of the Orient, seeing Richie standing under warmly dim lights, and smell of soy sauce like a hazy cloud. Eddie had never wished to kiss someone as urgently as he did during the moment Richie teased him for being married to a woman.

The wind billows pleasantly, whipping through the openings of his white t-shirt and cargo shorts. Eddie can admit the weather is refreshing—better than it has been in months when the sticky humidity had them lying around, lazy and unproductive. Richie can’t write in the summer; says through mumbled pouty lips that the heat infects his brain so Eddie has to resort to months of typing away Richie’s non-sequiturs in his Macbook Pro he solely bought for this very purpose. So he can see why Richie insisted on going for a quick swim, always jumping at the chance for an adventure. Always spontaneous and encouraging Eddie to break out of his mental cages.

They’d been outdoor-y types as kids but the two of them aren’t necessarily prone to survive in nature with Richie’s...Well, it’s a wonder he can breathe on his own, so Richie plus the wilderness equals a major safety hazard. As for Eddie, he’d absolutely douse himself with bug spray and end up lying in a ditch somewhere from poisoned inhalation, rotting enough to ultimately be eaten by bugs like some karmic bullshit.

But maybe the reason fits under the textbook characteristic of their zodiac signs; Eddie’s a Scorpio and Richie’s a Pisces—water elements—naturally drawn to the beach like a siren call. Add the fact that they live in a beach house and it only further proves his theory, more-so since beach days were a regular in the Tozier-Kaspbrak household. Still, astrology is Patty’s—and occasionally—Mike’s specialty and all of Eddie’s knowledge comes from tuning in and out of their conversations during weekly group gatherings.

It’s not the first time Richie’s gone for a swim alone and in fact, he spends more time bobbing in the ocean than take showers at home, preferring to take nighttime swims when the world is quiet. Eddie shares this sentiment; their brains are the main destination to a frat house party, and they’re both loud, creating a commotion wherever they go. The Losers call them the circus. Richie and Eddie had never felt so betrayed in their entire life and told them as such. All they received were hearty laughs because their friends were assholes but assholes they love and could not live without. They practically re-invented co-dependency—but Eddie self-meditates on the idea of how they deserve it after nearly thirty years apart.

However, the stickler in Richie’s nighttime swim plans is closing time—which is nine PM and this conundrum does not sit well with him of course. He’d managed to convince Eddie to find his rebellious streak again as they did as kids, always winding up in trouble because Eddie learned early on he couldn’t say no to Richie and the chances of an alternative outcome are close to none.

They had snuck past security, laughing and shushing each other every two seconds, grappled in a tight hold, languid from the faint remnant of that bottle of wine they’d shared. Eddie hadn’t quite felt as young as he did when Richie held his hand, eyes alight with mischief. His breath stolen. Again, and again, finally making out in the sand, the beach to themselves as he cants his hips down. Always craving to hear Richie moan over and over, thinking he could die if he doesn’t feel his hair twirl between his fingers or find Richie’s hand, low on his spine, tugging closer. But never close enough.

The speck on the horizon grows as Richie submerges closer in perspective and Eddie has to chuckle softly, catching how he nearly trips over a sandcastle a small child is building with all his tools littered nearby. The child seems directly focused on his work and is greatly nonplussed when Richie crouches down next to him at eye-level. Oh, boy. That kid doesn’t seem like he would appreciate being patronized but Eddie has faith in Richie’s ability to charm. His wide, openly friendly features and big white teeth are enough to have the sturdiest person melt and waver. Eddie can attest to it confidently for it’s painstakingly effective and has him smiling like the world’s biggest idiot in love six out of five times. That’s 120%. As in bulletproof. Invincible. And practically the holy grail.

Richie flattens his hair away from his face with practiced imitation to Eddie’s actions when he lathers on a palmful of gel before work every morning—anti-dandruff because his scalp is drier than Stan’s sense of humor. And he’s not exactly envious of Richie’s oil-prone scalp either—which is an issue only because he lacks showers whereas Eddie has to suffice with one per day. Like a normal-functioning adult.

How and why Eddie decided to fall for the one person who’s basically the antagonist version of him is still a concept discussed in great depth at dinner with the Losers. Might dial down to how opposites attract—like batteries in a tv remote. Richie would make a sixty-nine joke about that one.

After a wild, wild west face-off, the tension seems to have dissolved and the child smiles up at Richie, bucket hat eclipsing a shadow to the side of his face. Richie’s now wiggled himself into helping the boy stiffen a tower of his sandcastle, listening intently as he talks a mile a minute.

That Richie Tozier smile never disappoints.

“Damn.”

A man next to Eddie whispers under his breath, biting his lip—which was just unnecessarily over the top in his opinion. He and his friend both couldn’t be over the age of twenty-four, most likely university students judging by their—Eddie follows their trained gazes—oh.

In all his time living on Earth, reading thirst tweet after thirst tweet, and shoving all electronic devices to the back of a drawer in the wake of reading a few particular ones that borderline Eddie’s own level of kink and freak factor, that he had to physically shut off from everything surrounding him and live under the cocoon of his blanket in bed—until Richie found him later on, amused and fond the only two expressions notable alongside a scruff across his jaw Eddie wants to nuzzle his cheeks into and just breathe—

— _He did not prepare for this_.

It’s the downside of being married to a celebrity—and Richie detests attention to the point of which he never dares to read such comments or even believe them in the first place. So, Eddie has to live with the isolating knowledge that people—strangers out there, fantasize about fucking Richie’s arms and tits or swallowing his big fat cock down their throats, so deep, they explode—just as much as Eddie himself fantasizes about. And has done. Continues to do so. Both in imagination and in real life because it’s _RichieandEddie_ and they’re bunnies who check off every idea on their Sexual Rediscovery list before dying. Because they twist everything into a competition or a game and are up for anything due to their open-door policy of respect and honesty.

Right. And.

How come Eddie stands on this gigantic beach, amidst thousands of other seemingly mundane people only to be stuck with the two who just so happen to be openly lusting after his husband?

Eddie screeches to a mental stop to think. They clearly had no clue who Richie was nor who Eddie is either because if they did, they would take that twitch in his eye rather seriously and be able to actually read his black aura, radiating waves of possessive—and passive aggression. But. Richie is _famous_ , famous—except some aren’t able to put two-and-two together at all times because they don’t expect a celebrity to be mingling with non-celebs. Nor do they grasp the idea of a celebrity spending leisure time in the same vicinity as them.

Now, Richie’s attractive according to Eddie. It’s just simply Richie with his balding head, enormous front teeth that are honestly quite cute, and his gangly arms and legs, a dad-bod he is proud of, zits on his back, hairy balls, swollen ankles, and bony feet—and Richie. His Richie whose face Eddie wants to see first thing in the morning for the rest of his life. The first person he texts or calls even for the smallest thing whether it’s to rant about catching a student cheating on a test or tell him he loved that new sandwich Richie made for lunch, cut into triangles with extra lettuce just the way Eddie adores. He’s the first person he wants to see upon arriving home, give him a great big hug Richie crouches down for, nestling his face in the crook of his neck while Eddie strains up on his tip-toes and kisses above the crease of his eyebrow like tradition, prompting a content sigh. Richie’s the first person he wants to laugh with, travel with, share a joke with, watch the latest movie with, cry with when life gets bumpy. And everything. Richie is his first everything.

And what is attractive really? Eddie’s certain it falls under subjective categories, driven by the influence of social media, movies and tv shows. Celebrities. Which explains why Richie’s DM’s blow up. But this is also the reason why diversity is added under the broad blanket of what is attractive. To accept all body-types, to accept Richie for who he is, and to treat him with the same love Eddie delivers in every press of their lips, and mixed morning breath, and gentle, exploring fingers.

Richie isn’t stuck on his body as much. He says it's because they’re _old fucks_ now. He doesn’t have time to care anymore about what people think or say. Eddie’s proud of Richie for accepting that mind-set. Always _brave_ but denying it out of shyness rather than modesty.

And he peruses a glance back at Richie. Him shirtless and so fucking gorgeous Eddie salivates at the mere motion of him settling down, criss-cross-applesauce position. Richie’s a giver, deeply intuitive to other’s needs and ready to lift their spirits even as he seems to absorb the energy of those around him. It’s the same case for Eddie and for the rest of the Losers. All of them have a knack for sensing emotions or any negative energy. Perhaps it’s the after effect and the magical residue of whatever the fuck happened in the sewers back in 1989, strengthening again in 2016.

Eddie can’t say. But he adores Richie beyond the effort’s words could explain. And if others can see what Eddie sees, then...who is he to criticize? He finds it comical almost to be placed in this awkward situation, but Eddie can have a little fun, can’t he?

The man’s friend is just as muscular as the other, tanned, chiseled jaws, and the two curiously lack body hair…Richie doesn’t necessarily have a type, even though these men would definitely make him do a double-take—because they’re visually appealing. Eddie can admit to it. But. He sidles closer to them, eye-ing their biceps and mentally calculating the difference between theirs and his own.

Eddie scoffs lowly and confidently preens, finding great satisfaction upon realizing that he is, in fact, bigger and bulkier than the two of them. Not to mention the hair. Richie likes Eddie’s body hair and very clearly addresses that he loves beard-burn and the scratchy texture he feels when they cuddle, legs intertwined. So, _fuck_ them.

“Mhm, bitch, get in line.” His friend replies, “I could just eat that man up.”

Eddie tries not to visibly cringe when the guy licks his lips. Jesus Christ.

The boy points back to a pair who seem to be his parents, relaxing nearby on a multi-colored blanket. Richie waves to them with enough vigor to detach his arm from his shoulder, the notion on the verge of childish that Eddie can’t distinguish between his forty-seven-year-old husband and a boy who’s most likely seven at most.

“You know, I think I saw him somewhere...” He frowns, “Think he might be famous.”

The friend snorts, fingering at the beaded necklace around his neck, “It’s California. You think every person we cross is a celebrity.”

Eddie presses his lips together, holding in his hysterical laugh for a beat, and instead, wedges himself into the conversation, “What? That guy?” He feigns a disagreeing expression as the pair shuffle around in confusion, resolving to accept that he was speaking to them. “No way he’s a celebrity. Too down-to-Earth, don’t you think?”

They pause to share a look of confusion masked behind mild annoyance from his interruption. One of them opens his mouth up to respond but Eddie switches gears and yells out, cupping his mouth to create volume, “Hey, blue trunks!”

Richie, who spends Friday evenings screaming at a computer with noise-cancellation headphones strapped around his head, doesn’t hear him at first, still in the middle of an important discussion with the boy, but miraculously, he does hear him the second time, perking up like his pet dog, ears up and bright as if it were playtime. Eddie’s pulse quickens upon the quirk of his smile, slamming for two beats before quietening down. Richie gives a two-fingered salute to the boy who plays along and salutes back.

“Oh, hell.” The man says beside him, breathless with wonder and struck by Eddie’s confidence while Richie walks over, still fairly wet and sweaty because he’s a human heater and sports pit-stains like it’s a design element of the shirt itself.

His manly aroma typically strikes a prickle of something feral low in Eddie’s spine, swirling with dissatisfaction around Richie, twitching with the need to curl up inside him and live in his embrace. Upon closer inspection, Eddie notices Richie’s skin is pink. His t-zone and cheeks are ruddy, some patches scattered at his torso. Eddie angles his eyebrows down in disapproval and he knows Richie knows he’s bound for a lecture once they get home. Which is why he sheepishly scratches at his nape—biceps galore—and it does not help the two men who collectively choke on a breath.

Eddie, however, can keep a lid on it—but just barely.

“So, like,” Eddie starts, building a gravelly tone, “these guys over here think you’re a celebrity or something?” He juts a thumb at the pair, whose jaws have now dropped.

Thankfully, his husband is a professional actor and a two-time Emmy award winner who easily wipes off any tell on his face to adopt nonchalance. “Oh, yeah…” That’s his man—quick on his feet, “I wouldn’t call myself a celebrity, or anything. I’m more like...”

“B-list?” Eddie asks, blinking twice.

Richie licks his lips at the owlish display of what game Eddie’s playing at. Eddie has to bite back a smirk as he trails on, “More C-list, actually.” He lies with a firm nod, rocking on his heels.

_C-list my ass_. Seriously. What rock were these two guys living under to believe such bullshit?

“Good enough,” he mutters, shrugging one loose shoulder, and raises his voice, “So, my fridge stopped working the other day and it just so happens that my neighbor put her’s out curbside for me.” Eddie gestures at Richie, one step closer to enter his radius of musky heat. He makes sure to intentionally meet his stormy eyes, noting the slight hitch in his inhale, “You look like a big, strong man. Up for helping me carry it into my house?”

Richie recalibrates at the choice of words, breath stuttering with pupils expanded in a dark void behind coke-bottle glasses because he insists it’s his entire brand and must wear them even inside his grave. He made him pinky-promise on it, and they take that shit seriously, perceiving it a major backstab if the two ever betray it.

“Alright,” Richie scratches the three-day stubble under his chin, and Eddie’s tongue tingles at the textural feel of it provided by experience. Like olfactory memory. “What’s in it for me?”

Eddie purses his lips, glancing at the men who are dazed and confused and still hesitantly buying the act. He needs to sell it. “Hand job?” He squints up at Richie, using his hand as a shade because he’s a fucking tree and the sun is high up beside his head.

God, Eddie wants to fucking climb him.

Richie’s flush blooms across his cheeks. Eddie’s always thought he looks especially pretty in pink—except the gradual increase in his sunburnt skin is not at all what he had in mind for what he considers sexy. How many times has Eddie scolded him? Countless. Yet, Richie never learns, words flowing in from one ear and out the other—similarly to Frank and Jean, their adopted children, whose eager excitement outweighs all logical thinking: safety measures down the drain.

Richie swallows thickly, darting a glance somewhere behind Eddie—probably at a random family enjoying their outing—before he meets his eyes. He could swear the feeling of it is akin to the sound of a seatbelt clicking with a satisfying snap. Or the gentle purr of his car engine, regular and constant in a thrum alike to Richie’s steady heartbeat under his smaller palms. 

“With eye-contact?” Richie’s tone is croaky, edging towards a downhill descent of desperation. He isn’t vocal about what truly matters but Eddie has inherently learned what Richie wants. And what he wants is romantic intimacy even when they fuck—some validation and emotional support to make up for what he hadn’t received early on in his adult life.

Eddie dramatically rolls his eyes, and barters, “ _Ugh_. Fine, alright. As long as you also help me fit two shelving units.”

Richie folds his arms across his chest, contemplating while Eddie tries with great difficulty not to focus on the broadening width of his shoulders. “How far away do you live?”

“It’s a seven-minute walk.”

“Mmm, full-on sex.” He brings a finger to the dimple of his chin, winking as he relaxes into a playful stance, “Top me, baby.”

“Sold.” Eddie replies shakily as he’s bound to burst into laughter any second now, “As long as I come first.”

Richie squeaks, a breathy, chalk-like sound hacking from his throat as if he were coughing on a cigarette. Eddie’s seen that occur far too many times as teenagers, hiding under the bleachers as Beverly’s lyrical laugh rings the air.

The two men gape.

“Then what the fuck are we waiting for?” Richie’s attempts to level his voice is terrible, so it sounds like an out-of-practice orchestra, all high and low, hitting the wrong tune at the wrong time.

“Hey, uh...” The friend calls out and they twist back to them blankly, “I live right here, and I don’t need help with anything.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow, physically broadening his chest up, “ _Excuse me?_ ”

Richie smirks wolf-like at his furious husband—an expression Eddie receives a handful of times on a regular day, “You know, that sounds like a better deal.” And he begins to move until Eddie smacks a palm to his chest, stopping him.

“I will _not_ hesitate to gag you.”

The other man jabs an elbow to his friend’s side, eyes wide and whispering harshly as he remembers, “That’s fucking Richie Tozier. _And he’s married!_ ” He chides.

Eddie grins ear-to-ear as the two of them swivel their heads back to him, blushing immensely. It’s not over yet for Eddie, however, who wouldn’t be able to hold himself back from making them grovel in humiliation, “Yeah, dipshits. And who do you think he’s married to?” He raises his hand up, showing off his wedding band, proud dimples, before spinning on his heels, leaving them with dumbstruck expressions.

The warmth of Richie’s gaze at the side of his face feels like the beam of the sun; scorching. A flutter of cartoon hearts crowns the circumference of his humongous head and—Ah. Fuck. That sappy shit. Eddie succumbs to finds his adorably soft look and mirrors his own in comparison, sighing as if he’s been holding a breath in. He loops an arm around his waist, the other palm resting on the middle of Richie’s chest, and Richie follows his lead to lock him in place by wrapping a beefy arm to his shoulder, thrumming. Eddie can feel Richie physically restrain himself from cooing while he hugs the ever-living shit out of him.

“Oh, shut up.” He admonishes lightly, mouthing a peck to his sun-kissed shoulder, tasting bitter sea-salt.

Richie raises his hands, bracing not without humor, “Didn’t say a word.”

“But. I can hear you still. You talk too much.” He mumbles back.

“Oh, yeah?” Richie’s voice brims with cheeky undertones as his hand snakes down Eddie’s arm. His goosebumps rise, “Then put that mouth to use, good sir. My lips await.” He challenges and Eddie _never_ backs down from a challenge, always eager to prove himself even as there isn’t the need for it when it comes to Richie.

He halts them on their path, feet buried in sand, waves crashing, and a cacophony of laughing children while the wind whistles past their ears like a ghost song. The sun is drowning at the edge of the ocean, the sky streaked in orange, pink, and blue high above behind fluffy clouds. It’s as beautiful as Richie.

Eddie palms both of his cheeks, soft and mushy under his touch while Richie rests his hands to the small dimples of Eddie’s waist, smiling impatiently. Greedy. Eddie thinks they’re both greedy when it comes to physical gestures and love—affection for two touch-starved men who had not been held with proper care.

He stretches his fingers to the back of Richie’s wet hair, to tangle them like vines. A tad cold now, but perfect, nonetheless. This earns Eddie a low hum akin to a purring cat, which makes him smile and chuckle once their lips melt in a sweet kiss, meeting in the middle. He gasps, spurred on by the barrier of Richie’s stomach in between them, and pulls him down closer. Richie’s arms immediately crowd and engulf him to his body. _It’s home_. And Eddie arches the more Richie bends forward, laughing between kisses because their inner giddiness is stored inside the pressure cooker of their chests.

Even their sex-life is an erotic rom-com since Richie is the world’s biggest idiot who has him in a fit of laughter at all times. They take half-an-hour at most to finally reach the part where the real fun begins and Eddie's Apple Watch detects it as enough exercise to bump up his ring goals by ten percent. He has a theory about their almost shy-like behaviour at times; that maybe they’re still a bit nervous to bare their souls after decades worth of repressed inner turmoil.

They separate, foreheads and noses flattened together. A shared breath as the words tumble out, “I’m going to fuck your brains out, big guy.”

“God, that’s gnarly.” Richie exhales, ending the sentence strangled when Eddie smacks his ass, once again forgetting they’re at a public beach. He yelps, complaining, “You’re the worst. Now I’m going to walk all the way back home with a raging boner.” He kicks a wave of sand at Eddie’s feet who merely suppresses the flare of irritation. Fondness. And then resting at confusion from the bafflement of his own mixed emotions.

Eddie will prompt a migraine if he thinks about it too long.

He glues himself to Richie instead, “It’s payback for not applying sunscreen properly. I mean, couldn’t you have waited a bit more until I came home with the kids?”

“What can I say except that the sea was calling me?” He sing-songs, leaning all his weight on him, playful.

Eddie snorts, rolling his eyes, “We’ve got to really stop Jean from watching _Moana_ every day.”

“I know!” Richie bemoans, animatic in the way he throws his hands in the air and chest pumped up, “I’m convinced the only words I can say anymore are the ones limited to the script of the movie. Can’t even write a stand-up routine anymore, Eds! My career will crash and burn in the hands of a seven-year-old.”

“Oh, please!” He puts a damper on his husband’s theatrics, “The only reason your career will crash and burn is if me—your source material—is dead—”

Richie gasps with all the gusto he can muster, hand flattening at his chest, “Edward Tozier-Kaspbrak, how dare you utter the d-word in my presence.”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie levels _his look_ up at him, about to rip back with a witty remark until he finds the fight dissipating upon the flinching flash of sincerity. Behind the jokes and the dramatics is just a small, scared boy, hopelessly in love.

Richie’s face flickers in question at Eddie’s prolonged pause. He apologizes for something that could have been a much more terrifying outcome if Richie hadn’t pulled him out of the way. A couple of seconds. A couple of centimeters decided his entire fate.

Eddie’s voice is small, “My bad. That was insensitive.”

He’s forgiven of course. Grudges and resentment cause relationships to fall apart.

Richie smacks a kiss to the side of Eddie’s forehead, under a loose curl, “Sixty dollars in the jar.” He propositions lightly.

“Sixty?” Eddie whips his head up in mild surprise for they never go this high for anything. Not even when they truly argue.

“Sixty.” He confirms in a low voice, pouty as he explains what Eddie already knows, “You know I hate those sorts of jokes.”

A ball lodges up his throat.

“Okay.”

Sixty dollars won’t even make a dent in their pockets, and Richie’s always quick to buy him anything he asks for because money’s never the issue. It’s shame and ego.

He noses into Richie’s neck, the scent of the ocean and sweat prominent. It’s so very _him_ and Richie squeezes him closer, smiling as his flip-flops make that annoying squelching sound on the pavement. Eddie’s gotten used to it by now, but it still makes his insides twist with unpleasantness. He blocks the sound by training his ears on other surrounding noises of a wailing child with ice-cream pouring down his grubby fingers, and an exhausted mother ultimately resigning to carry him. The evenings are when music blasts the speakers on the beach, food trucks lined up to target older teenagers and young impressionable adults out searching for a good time. Walking deeper into the neighborhood has the loud chaos of the beach slowly die away, the streets much quieter. Serene. A few people are on their evening jog or walking their yipping dogs on the sidewalk.

“So…" Richie trails off innocently, “fridge, huh?” His glee is transparent and it’s wishful thinking on Eddie’s part for assuming he’d let that slide.

“You’re the fridge.” He deadpans because it’s the truth. They both know it well enough.

He pumps his fist with a sharp _yes_ as if he’s just won the lottery, then links their fingers, hand covering Eddie’s. He shivers and a Cheshire-cat smile splits Richie’s face, “Gonna carry me then, oh husband?”

_Bait_.

Eddie’s finger twitches with the urge to pull his phone out and take a picture of Richie right now—even as his skin melts, his salt-and-pepper hair—rather notable to which he can blame his darker hair color for—in a doe-eyed emoji t-shirt he bought and later argued with Eddie about because it’s absolutely dumb but it reminds Richie of him so he was forced to swallow that emotional lump down his throat. In defeat. Staring at Richie as he stares back—face a pandora’s box of unhidden secrets.

Eddie simply loves him a fuck-ton of a lot.

Sometimes too much. It kind of drives him to the brink of insanity…as if he’ll find the impulsive need to tattoo Richie’s name above the layer of skin above his heart.

Like when Eddie hogs the blankets at night and Richie wakes up, bare on his front, not a word of complaint. Like in the past when Frank first started school and they’d both stay behind whenever Richie left for tours, leaving a tantrum-throwing Frank because he’d only been young and didn’t understand why the two of them weren’t joining him like previous times. Frank wouldn’t be satisfied until Richie would call them every day, reassuring with an _I’ll be back before you say the word Spaghetti_ every time before he cuts the call.

Or the time Eddie suggested—and maybe sort of forced—Richie to join his date-night craft project idea, where they dedicate a couple of days out of a month to sit together in their underwear, blast eighties music, and braid designs. Richie made Eddie a bracelet he still wears on his right wrist. Eddie, in turn, spent days in secret designing Richie’s bracelet alongside a note that read, _You’re my lobster_ , which prompted Richie to cry for hours as Eddie rubbed his back and comforted Frank and Jean saying _no, no one passed away, daddy’s just like that_ until they were convinced enough to cuddle up beside them and kiss his wet cheeks.

“Et tu?” Richie shakes their joined hands, jerking him out of his reverie. Eddie’s breath stutters, feeling like a balloon being tugged back down by the string.

He musters up a sharp look at him once the words catch up, “That means ‘and you’, bug.”

Richie squeezes Eddie's hand upon hearing his favorite term of endearment, “Fine, fine.” Always game and silent for a beat before he drags the words out meaningfully with a tilt of his head. Mocking. “Where art thou?”

He snorts lightly, a small puff of air through his nose. They’ve reached the front steps of their house and the two of them pause to wave back at their next-door-neighbor, Dan, who’s watering his front garden. He’s got a bit of a green thumb and Eddie’s been his apprentice for a year.

Eddie exhales slowly with a gentle bite of his lips and draws up the tiniest, most genuine smirk as he pumps Richie’s hand, “Right where I’m supposed to be.” He answers.

And before Richie’s given a chance to react at all, Eddie’s snaked an arm under his knees, the other hand across his back and cupping under his armpit. Richie’s arms instinctively travel to Eddie’s neck, holding on for dear life as a broken squawk escapes past his mouth.

“Great Scott, Eds! Fuck. Warn a poor old guy next time. You know my heart’s weak.”

“Yeah, and who’s fault is that, hm? Even Jean doesn’t eat as much candy as you, fucker.” He jabs back, not unkindly but with just a bit of edge, he knows he loves.

Richie vibrates in his arms, bursting into laughter that catches the attention of Dan who smiles to himself, used to their antics, “First of all, I’m already hard. No need for all the unnecessary foreplay.” Eddie readjusts him, building a greater hold for him to not fall out his arms. “And secondly…” He pushes out his lower lip, “Well, I can’t actually think of anything except for the fact that you love me—” Richie brushes a hand across his pec, lightly grazing his nipple.

And there it is again. The catch.

“I do,” Eddie says, putting away the metaphorical tennis racket for a match that could extend for hours if one of them didn’t mature.

Richie hums under his breath, tone syrup-honey, “Well lookie here. You do remember your lines.”

“What did we say about talking too much?”

Richie mimes zipping his mouth and throwing away the key. The ridiculous action of it makes him smile even as he tries not to play into his hand. But then again, Eddie’s never been good at not falling for Richie repeatedly.

They embrace a short-term truce for the moment as Eddie puts one step over the other, carrying Richie past the threshold once more as he did six years ago. Inside, Frank will be helping Jean with her math homework up until she hears the door open, causing her to rush to their side with open arms. Richie will hoist her up and later complain about his fucked up back that night before lying in bed. They’ll probably eat leftover chicken korma with naan for dinner, delivered by Maggie the day before because she’s been experimenting with global cuisine recently. They’ll clean up, commence in an immature dish-cloth duel, reorganize and talk with Frank and Jean before bedtime.

The rest of the night will pass slumped on the couch as they flip through channels, mumbling about how their day went. Only until they’re sure they won’t be disturbed, they’ll quietly check up on the kids, travel to their bedroom once satisfied, lock the door, and finally, Eddie will stay true to his promise at the beach. They’ll indulge in a much-needed shower afterward, he’ll apply aloe vera to Richie’s sunburnt skin—call him a fool—only to crash into bed, kiss each other good night, and repeat it all over again the next day.

Eddie smiles, feeling dizzy with happiness as Jean attaches herself to Richie’s leg just like he predicted, Frank in line. Nearly forty-eight years-old and Eddie believes this might be the first time he’s ever been glad to have a routine. To be surrounded by people who have built a house in his heart, and to live inside the ever-growing capacity.

Richie’s knee pops soundly alongside a grunt upon pulling Jean up. He blows away the hair streamed at the front of her face, causing her to scowl as she winds two slim arms tighter around Richie’s neck. Amused, Eddie kisses the top of Frank’s head as he engages in a discussion about the latest comic they’d bought him, excitable enough for Richie and Eddie to share a look of pure nostalgia at the behavior so alike theirs, it jars him into thinking the two of them are back in the hammock again.

With slow precision, Eddie slides sixty dollars inside the turtle-shaped jar through the opening of its mouth. Messily scrawled on the shell are the words _It pays to be naughty_ , Richie’s doing, and it makes him snort every single time. Richie’s smirk widens, once he notices the action, crawling over to his side to kiss right in the middle of Eddie’s cheek, hot breath sparking wrinkled skin. He lingers once the pressured touch Eddie places on Richie’s forearm is urgently demanding. Unfulfilled.

Their mouths hover closely, Richie’s lips gently lifting at the corner and it’s small yet makes all the difference. He abides Eddie’s silent order and kisses him, barely moving—just two mouths pressing to remember the feeling and texture without leading it anywhere. Eddie can barely taste the remnants of Neutrogena sunscreen at the rim of his lips, and he inhales him in, drinking his fill.

With one last moment of applied force, Richie brushes past Eddie with intentions of grazing every part of his torso on his before struggling to change out of his swimsuit, absently reciting his next routine under his breath with puffs of small laughter.

It’s like what they say. There really is no place like home.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, the [link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mEzgXWP0qUM) for the clip from the show.
> 
> Do not perceive me if you notice the plot holes about Richie's glasses and how he magically has a shirt on...
> 
> Leave a comment if you'd like, and I'm not as active but I do have [twitter](https://twitter.com/yippee_ki_ya) if you want to see me on more of my bullshit :)


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